


An Agent's Christmas in London

by Dawnwind



Category: The Professionals
Genre: Christmas, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-13
Updated: 2013-12-13
Packaged: 2018-01-04 11:49:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1080666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dawnwind/pseuds/Dawnwind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On his way to rescue Bodie, Doyle gets caught. Now who's going to rescue him? Good thing Bodie has a bottle of Brandy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Agent's Christmas in London

An Agent’s Christmas in London  
By  
Dawnwind

The bald headed man shoved Doyle hard, sending him reeling into the corner of the dimly lit room. With his hands bound behind him, Doyle had nothing to break his fall. He landed heavily on his knees, smacking his forehead on the concrete wall. Hurt like a son of a bitch, and he bit back a curse. 

The other two blokes in the room chuckled, their laughter suggesting menace and cruelty. 

“He a copper?” one asked in thick scouse.

Doyle kept his head down, purposefully avoiding their contemptuous gazes. He needed a plan to get away and his throbbing head wasn’t going to make thinking a pleasant endeavour.

“Who else would be lurking outside in the shadows in this weather?” the bald man replied, turning his back on Doyle to go join his mates. “I’ll get rid of ‘im when it’s fully dark. Nuffin like a midnight swim in the Thames.”

 _That was not going to happen._ Doyle hugged his icy hands to his body, taking account of the situation. 

His three captors were huddled around a table, digging into what smelt like some sort of curry. Doyle had seen an Indian restaurant the next street over that had takeaway. His belly roiled at the spicy scent.

Bloody hell, he was in for it now. Doyle wasn’t sure who he feared more, this mob or Cowley’s wrath, all because he hadn’t followed instructions to the letter. His orders had been to get word to Bodie, currently undercover. He’d cocked it up royally, and had no-one to blame but himself.

Inching around on his knees until he could lean against the wall to steady himself, Doyle unfolded his legs and sat flat on the cold cement floor. He ignored the rip in his trousers and the blood seeping from his left knee. There were more important things to worry about—like getting out alive. Inhaling deeply to decrease his heart rate, he searched the large room from under veiling lashes. 

They were on the first story, he knew that much; the bald man had brought him up in a lift. The wide open space had probably been a factory or sweatshop once, but now had dust bunnies and damaged floor boards. Windows lined the length of one wall; most were broken and boarded up, a breeze coming through the cracks. A corner of the room was furnished with a table, chairs, a telephone and the usual detritus that accumulated when people stayed in one place for long. The only real light came from bulbs strung on a wire over the living area.

Doyle slowed his examination of the building to peruse the three men huddled near an electric fire. He’d been so chilled outside in the December afternoon that he’d almost welcomed being hauled into the warmer building. Bodie had provided IDs on the gang, but as Doyle wracked his foggy brain for the names of his captors, he came up empty. Sure sign of a concussion. For now, he dubbed the one with the shining pate, wearing braces and a mackintosh, Baldie. The rotund one in a green jumper and wellingtons was Porkpie. He’d like to call the Liverpudlian in the red and black checked jacket Berk.

“We’re cooked if the boss finds out ‘bout him,” the scouse voice said loudly, turning at exactly the right time to look Doyle in the eye.

Caught, Doyle sent him a silent, defiant, _“sod off”_ and turned away before he saw Bodie’s jaw tighten. He didn’t have to see it, he knew it would happen. Bodie couldn’t reveal that they knew one another. Not now. 

Or at least, not yet.

All he’d meant to do was check the skip where Bodie had been leaving his reports. It was usually a small bit of paper, rolled into a ball inside an old Heinz baked beans tin. Although Bodie called in from a phone booth when he could, the skip had been their only means of communication for over a week. Bodie had infiltrated the McIvory gang a fortnight ago. CI5 had been closing in on the gang’s drug smuggling, but hadn’t quite been able to get irrefutable evidence to charge the leader with any crimes. Once inside, Bodie had been providing specific times, dates and proof of shipments, invaluable for the Queen’s prosecutors. But two days earlier, he’d missed his usual check-in. 

Doyle had been prowling the area around the skip for twenty-four hours, waiting and watching for a chance to get in close and talk to Bodie. Had lack of sleep caused his carelessness, he wondered. Would he have evaded capture if he had been more awake? Worry, fear, anger and frustration had swirled in his gut since Cowley’s orders. Seeing Bodie here, safe and unharmed, did nothing to alleviate his basic irritation. Why hadn’t Bodie checked in? Doyle wanted to throttle his partner. Or, he would do so, once his hands were untied.

He wiggled his wrists around, hoping to turn his fingers in a direction where he could tug at the knots, but his captor must have earned a merit badge in knot tying in Scouts. The ropes were snug and no amount of twisting his arms loosened them. The rough hemp abraded his skin, and every time he moved his hands, the ropes bit further into his flesh. 

“I’d no’ worry about McIvory,” Baldie scoffed with a laugh. Belching, he held up a bottle of brandy. “’E’s off playing the ‘igh class gent at Christmas Eve services, but ‘appily, ‘e left us with this lit’le bit of ‘oliday cheer.”

“Too right!” Porkpie said sourly, the overhead light turning his face into a ghoul’s mask. “If we’ve got to stay ‘ere, keep an eye on Bill ‘til the gov’ returns, least we’ve som’ffin to ease the pain.”

A single bottle of brandy seemed an odd choice for a group of thugs. Doyle’d welcome a swallow of the French wine, if just to ease his aching head.

“Don’t have to stay around on my account.” Bill, better known as Bodie, dumped the empty takeaway cartons in the rubbish bin. “Go round to the pub on the corner, have a toast to Father Christmas.”

“Nah.” Baldie unscrewed the cap on the bottle and raised the brandy to take a swallow. “McIvory says we nursemaid the new ones, every time. ‘e’s not a trustin’ man, ‘e isn’t.”

“Here, here!” Bodie grabbed the brandy from Baldie before a drop had come out of the bottle. “Be civilized and drink from a glass. I don’t relish the idea of exchanging spit with the likes of you lot.”

Porkpie growled menacingly and half rose out of his chair. “Wot you on about?”

Doyle sucked in air, preparing himself to leap into the fray if Bodie was attacked. He truly didn’t feel up to the task, but he would if Bodie were in peril. 

Bodie, for his part, didn’t move, gripping the bottle as if he were a sommelier about to suggest a libation. The bulb above his head made his blue eyes glitter with a feral danger. He held out one side of his disreputable checked jacket with his right hand to prove he was unarmed, his left eyebrow canted at a sarcastic angle. “Nothing up me sleeve.”

“Alf,” Baldie said quietly, waving his mate into his seat. “Ain’t worth the aggro. Bill just wants to be mother.”

Under Alf’s watchful glower, Bodie plunked the bottle down on a plank balanced over two sawhorses, and fished three glasses out of a box below. “There’s Turkish Delight, here too, Alf.” He set a gaudy, octagonal box in front of the bigger man. “Merry Christmas.”

“Sweets?” Alf asked suspiciously but he stuffed two sugar dusted jellies into his mouth, chewing furiously.

Deciding it was time to put in his tuppence-worth, Doyle raised his head. “Oy, Bill,” he shouted. “Give us a wee dram.”

Baldie and Alf chuckled thickly through their mouthfuls of Turkish Delight.

“Shut your gob!” Bodie threatened, pointing a finger at Doyle with a single nod.

The berk had a plan? Doyle settled back, relieved but concerned. What was Bodie going to do? Had Doyle’s capture been a help or a huge liability for Bodie? He worried his bottom lip, trying not to focus on his aching head and swelling knee. 

Doyle watched his partner’s every move but it was difficult to see much. Bodie had his back turned to them all, clearly pouring out the drink. After a moment, he placed three glasses of brandy on the table and sat down as if he had all the time in the world.

Under any other circumstances, Doyle really would have throttled him. He assuaged his ire by glaring at Bodie, shifting his bound wrists behind his back. There wasn’t a comfortable position to be found.

“Blimey, that’s more like it!” Baldie announced, tossing back his serving as if he’d just drunk water instead of seventy proof alcohol. He coughed slightly, pounding on his chest with satisfaction.

Tasting his, Alf licked his lips. “Ain’t never ‘ad the stuff, but not ‘alf bad.”

“Not quite Courvoisier.” Bodie took a cautious sip, holding the liquor in his mouth before swallowing. “Still, better’n nothing at all.”

“Elixir of kings, that is.” Baldie smiled, helping himself to more. He drank the second helping in two swigs, setting his glass onto the tabletop with a clack. 

“You’ve unplumbed depths, Conal,” Bodie said with admiration. “Who knew you could hold your drink so well.”

“Don’ know why McIvory don’ trust you, Bill.” Conal selected a square of Turkish Delight, peered at it and popped it into his mouth. “Seem like a decent sort of bloke t’me.”

“I’m handsome and modest,” Bodie said, looking over Conal’s head at Doyle. His smile was somehow both sweet and sarky. He lowered his eyes to Conal. “What about that toast to Father Christmas, then?” 

“The Baby Jesus,” Alf said reverently, crossing himself with proper C. of E. technique. “It’s ‘is birfday.”

“It is indeed,” Bodie declared, holding the bottle up with a flourish. “Have another?”

“Bit more of the Charley Randy for me,” Alf grunted, propping up his big head on one massive fist. He shoved his glass forward with his left hand.

“Wouldn’t turn you away at the door.” Conal held out his glass.

Bodie poured up to the rim of each glass. It was then that Doyle realised that his partner was in no way matching his companions. Conal was on his third drink, Alf finishing up his second and Bodie had barely tasted his first. His was indeed a wee dram, probably only half as much brandy as he’d given the other two.

 _Crafty bugger,_ Doyle thought. But there’s just the one bottle; surely three men won’t get drunk on that amount of alcohol. 

Damn, his head ached abysmally, and he was feeling every one of the thirty-six hours he’d been awake. The only bright spot of all this was that he was out of the elements. He’d thawed, the electric fire providing sufficient heat to warm even his dismal corner.

Once Conal launched into a long, and quite convoluted, tale of some past burglary that had gone pear-shaped, Doyle found himself tuning out the increasingly drunk trio. When his eyes closed and he was nearly to dream land, he jolted awake, heart hammering against his ribcage. How in the world had he grown so relaxed inside the lion’s den? He had to be on the alert, there to back up Bodie, to—

He blinked, thinking he _was_ dreaming, and stared at the men sitting at the table. Or more precisely, at Alf and Conal, face down on the table, snoring loudly. Bodie was the only one still upright, his barely tasted brandy still in front of him. 

Leaping to his feet, Bodie snatched up a length of rope from a pile next to the packing crates. He rapidly tied Conal and Alf to their chairs.

“What in all bloody hell are you doing?” Doyle asked, seething. The least Bodie could do was untie him first.

Breathing heavily, Bodie found a knife from the kitchen supplies and trotted across the room. “Saving your sorry hide.”

“Me?” Doyle roared, too irritated to care that he’d wake the sleeping beauties up. “I came here to get you out of a jam, and look what happened!” 

“You ended up piggy-in-the-middle?” Bodie asked with a rakish grin. He sawed through the ropes binding Doyle’s all but numb hands. “Smartish, now, Raymond. Time to leave. D’you have your r/t with you?”

“Your mate Conal tucked it in his pocket.” Doyle stamped to the table. His right knee shot pain up his leg but he wasn’t about to give Bodie the satisfaction of seeing that he’d needed rescuing. His fingers were thick, clumsy sausages and the returning blood felt like thousands of needles. Of all the fucking luck, of course he couldn’t bend them dexterously enough to fish the r/t out of Conal’s mackintosh.

“Need a hand?” Bodie asked sweetly, putting a finger to Doyle’s lips to forestall any more outbursts. He retrieved the r/t and cocked his head toward the door.

About ready to put his fist into Bodie’s smug face, Doyle glanced at Alf and Conal, both dead to the world. “Any guns?” he whispered. 

“They’re harmless enough, for drug smugglers.” Bodie shrugged. “Come along, then! The wares, boxes of cocaine and heroin to ship out are downstairs.”

All the walking and talking had increased the pounding in Doyle’s skull three-fold. Unable to resist the lure of the now attainable brandy, he closed his fingers around the neck of the bottle.

“I wouldn’t if I were you.” Bodie stood with a hand on the door, clearly anxious to leave. 

“Why ever not?” Doyle hissed. He’d had about enough of this. Here he’d tried to be a good partner and rescue Bodie but instead, had been trussed up like the Christmas turkey. He was most assuredly concussed, with a gammy knee, and fuck it, he was having some of the fine and dandy, if only to get up Bodie’s nose all the more.

“You’ll end up just like them,” Bodie snorted, aiming a foot at Alf’s enormous wellingtons.

“You poisoned them?” Doyle demanded. That hadn’t even occurred to him. He replaced the bottle, stepping away. What had Bodie used and could it be absorbed through the skin? Just his luck to waste away on Christmas Eve from arsenic or cyanide. He should have been tucked up under a blanket in his flat, a cup of tea laced with whisky in hand, rereading Dylan Thomas’ _A Child’s Christmas in Wales._

“Not poison.” Bodie waved him out the door, following closely behind as they went down the stairs. 

Doyle’s knee protested that there was a perfectly good lift there, but his brain pointed out that the lift made a great deal of noise.

“Benedryl—about half a bottle, crushed up in the brandy,” Bodie said when they’d reached the ground floor. “It’s good for drying up the sinuses. I told them I had a bit of a cold, and it also sends ‘em right off to sleep. Put the flavour off. Luckily, neither of those two heathens would recognise a decent brandy if they drowned in it.”

Doyle literally didn’t know whether the confession stoked his inner burn or gave him new admiration for Bodie’s ability to think on his feet. He decided to indulge in his first impression and grabbed Bodie by the lapels of his jacket. “You insolent, ungrateful bastard,” he snarled, wishing his fingers functioned well enough to wrap around Bodie’s neck. 

Bodie’s blue eyes went wide when Doyle kissed him roundly and quite firmly, with lots of clashing of their teeth. “Don’t _ever_ make me have to rescue you again,” Doyle said savagely.

“Heard you loud and clear.” Bodie smiled against his lips and returned the kiss. “I’ve been wanting to do that since Conal dragged you in looking like a ice lolly. Perhaps we should continue this later after the squad have mopped up?”

“Cowley’s favourite,” Doyle said condescendingly, love dousing the last of his anger. 

Bodie lifted a mocking brow and raised the r/t. “Alpha, this is 3.7,” he said, walking out onto Nine Elms Lane. “Two gift wrapped packages waiting for you at my location, and McIvory’s giving thanks for his ill-got gains in St. Paul’s as we speak.”

“Been waiting too long for your call,” Jax chided softly. “4.5 with you?”

“A bit worse for the wear, but some medicinal brandy and a lay up in bed will put him to rights,” Bodie replied, slipping his hand into Doyle’s.

“We’re on our way,” Jax promised. “With another team ready to listen to the carols in the cathedral and bag us an early pressie in the form of a notorious drug dealer.”

“Whisky, and lots of it,” Doyle retorted. No more brandy in his lifetime. He didn’t intend to sag against the rough brick wall behind him, but lack of sleep, not to mention a few other aches and pains got the better of him. Still, he couldn’t simply chuck it all in. “You were meant to be on the couch with me, listening to Dylan Thomas,” he said fiercely, mentally revising the night’s activities, because in all likelihood, he was off to A&E.

“Tomorrow, instead of watching the Queen on the telly.” Bodie waved as one of CI5’s cars came onto the roundabout although he was looking straight at Doyle. “Why are you out in just a fisherman’s jumper? Bloody freezing tonight.” He gave an exaggerated shiver, and slipped off the ratty red and black jacket. “Try this on.”

“Next time, don’t nick my damned jacket!” Doyle pulled it on, standing straighter as Jax and Anson swarmed out of the car. Didn’t do to look feeble.

He’d survived.

 _Bodie had survived._ The bad guys were rounded up, for a short time at least, and all was well in London town.

That was as good as it was going to get. He smiled, watching his partner supervise the arrests of groggy Alf and Conal. There’d be no presents under a decorated tree. No roast goose with cranberries. No jacket potatoes, Brussels sprouts and sherry trifle, but he didn’t care. If he got to eat takeaway curry in the back of the Capri with Bodie, that would mean the world to him.

He looked up into the night sky; illuminated Christmas decorations and the usual light pollution blotted out most of the stars but a serene moon rode the crest of blue-black clouds just above the Thames. A light sprinkling of snow was starting to drift down.

“Merry Christmas, Mr. Scrooge.” Bodie gave him a wink.

“And to all a good night, Tiny Tim,” Doyle replied, full of the spirit of the season, and he hadn’t had a single drink yet.

FIN


End file.
